Living life on the borderline

Be careful what you wish for.

Posted on: March 20, 2010

I wanted to know what my diagnosis was. Now I wish I didn’t.

I got a letter with the outcome of my CPA today, which had my diagnosis in. Given that I wasn’t told it at my review, it was a bit of a shock to just read it on a piece of paper.

I apparently have emerging borderline personality disorder.

Now I wish I didn’t know that.

I’ve just come back from rollerskating and I’m aching all over, but at least while I was skating, I wasn’t thinking about the diagnosis and how annoyed I am at the doctor for not giving me chance to talk it through. Feet. Hurt. Too tired to write any more.

Edit: Right, I’ve changed my mind. I’m not too tired to write any more. I’m going to type and type until my sleeping medication kicks in.

There’s something about being a young person and having a mental illness that just… screws things up even more. What do I have in common with other young people? Um, nothing? My world is about CAMHS appointments and distraction techniques and coping strategies and PRN. I’d give anything to have a world full of moaning about parents, buying clothes and wearing make-up and I don’t know. Having “normal” worries. Most teenagers aren’t worried that if they say too much to their doctor, they’ll end up in the nut hut. They don’t have to force themselves to walk past train stations and bridges and busy roads rather than walk in front of/jump into anything.

I probably sound really shallow and whiny but I don’t care. It’s hard. Like at rollerskating tonight, I felt like I stood out among all the other teenagers. Nothing appears wrong on the outside, but everything inside and how you see yourself and other people and the world is all warped and that stands out (to you especially) more than anything.

Whenever I say that to anyone, they always say “You don’t know what goes on in other people’s heads”. That may be, but the statistics speak for themselves. The majority of young people do not try to kill themselves, have impulses to do or spend most of their time planning how to. That’s just how it is. Sometimes, false positivity, no matter how well intentioned, hurts more than the truth. Sometimes the truth has to be faced. I’m different and I’m lonely and I hate it.

As far as I know, group therapy isn’t something that’s offered (or has been offered to me, at least) at my local CAMHS. If I hadn’t gone into hospital, I wouldn’t know a single other person (who I could talk to about it) who self-harmed, tried to kill themselves, had PTSD and/or BPD.

That makes me feel pretty damn lonely. And I suppose venting into an anonymous online blog makes me feel less alone but the internet can only do so much. My family tries to understand, the friends that do know a little bit understand, but apart from that, zilch. It hurts.

So yeah, that pretty much sums it up.



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About the blogger.

I'm an 18 year old girl/woman/person of the female gender who blogs about growing up, living with mental health problems and her experience with the NHS mental health services, both CAMHS and CMHTs. Expect plenty of teenage angst and general craziness. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

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